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In its first week, Sarah Palin’s book, Going Rogue: An American Life, sold 700,000 copies. Here’s the cover:

Freedom lies in open skies and track-jackets.

She’s currently on tour promoting the book. Her Texas stop isn’t until December the 12th. I, however, couldn’t wait that long, so I decided to go on the 24th of November, traveling all the way to Alabama to get a chance to meet with Palin. My Editor made the proper arrangements for me to meet with Palin at the Birmingham stop after she had done some book signings and made a brief speech.

I stand in line with a collection of lily-white, slightly overweight, conservative Americans. For a moment, there are whispers of a sighting of an African-American man at the event, but it’s soon revealed to be a regular white man standing in a shadow. The crowd is audibly crestfallen, but then seems to be slightly relieved. I ask a man in line why.

“Why what?” He responds.

“Why are you so relieved that there are no black people here?”

“When did I say that?”

“What do you think I said you said?

“That I’m relieved no black people are here.”

“Bingo. Consider yourself quoted.”

“Wait, what? What are you quoting?!”

"... I'm relieved no black people are here."

Horrible. What a horrible man. Those concerned or angry can e-mail me for his name and exact number of how many copies of that stupid book he bought.

He also bought a Chicken Soup book. I think it was Chicken Soup for the Surly Old Soul That isn’t Quite Sure if it’s Racist or Not but Totally Is.

I decide to ask a woman in line what they think about Sarah as a politician, insofar as her political beliefs.

“What is it about Sarah’s politics that you like?”

“Well, she’s just a hockey-mom American like us. She believes in giving everybody a fair chance.”

“Focusing on your second point, because the first one only makes me want to burn this store down, you believe she gives everybody a fair chance? Would you elaborate on that?”

“She wants everybody to succeed, she wants everybody to go to college and have fulfilling careers and stuff.”

“Who doesn’t want that?” I ask her. “If that’s a point that sets her apart from everybody else, who is she being set apart from?”

“The left, of course,” She says. I immediately turn to my left, hands up in a karate-style defense. Nothing there. The left is a tricky, tricky bastard. I can understand what she’s afraid of.

“The left doesn’t want people to get a college education or to succeed?” I ask. The woman seems a bit confused, but in a stunning show of dialectic strategy, simply ignores the obvious flaw in her point and argues from a foundation of blindly-embraced ignorance.

“Of course! They all want the government to do everything! Socialists!”

“Socialshits are the worst,” I say.

She stutters for a moment, eying me suspiciously, then continues. “Before long, we’ll all be uneducated communists.”

“I’d hate to be an intoxicated commutits.” I snicker.

“Excuse me?” She hands her copy of her book to her friend who is standing nearby, crosses her arms and takes a step toward me.

“Hm?” I utter, suddenly afraid to make eye contact.

“What did you just say?” The woman, now displaying a sentiment that flirts with the line between anger and aggression, seems to have grown since approaching me. I’m visibly intimidated. I clutch the microphone tightly and take a step away from her.

“I said, let’s bring our boys home. Support the troops. Barack NObama. More like Al BORE! And then I said something about God hating mini skirts and Depeche Mode.”

“Well there you go! I’m glad young people have good heads on their shoulders nowadays.” She slaps me on my back and I almost vomit from a mix of terror and cognitive dissonance.

The signing takes about two hours, then Sarah speaks for another half hour. After she kisses a few hands and shakes a few babies she meets me in her luxurious tour bus. The air is alive with rampant desire. Her lust radiates from her as does the heat from a hot stove. She hasn’t arrived yet, but just the ora of the bus is enough to tell me that things might get a little…bipartisan, if you know what I mean. (If you don’t know what I mean, please e-mail Editor at bigdumbstupid666@yahoo.com) [Editor’s Note: That’s not my e-mail address, and everybody knows what you meant.] [Kyle’s Note: That absolutely is your e-mail address. I made it for you. This is your new work e-mail. I deleted the old one.] [Editor’s Note: Wait, how did…? Never mind. I hate you.]

“Where is this idiot?” I hear her saying from outside the bus to one of her handlers. She must have thought Editor was going to be with me.

Palin is preceded by the light thumps of her high-heeled shoes coming up the stairs of her tour bus. As soon as she turns the corner and sees me, she smiles and holds her hand out.

“Well hyello there! How are ya?” Wait, is Sarah Palin from up north? I thought the hockey mom thing was sarcasm.

“I’m good, I’m good. How are you?” I respond, putting away my only purchases of the day, a MAXIM and a calendar of cats dressed up as history’s greatest assassins. I was on John Whiskers Booth when she walked in.

“Oh you know,” she said, taking a seat across from me. “Anytime I get to be around the American people it’s a good day.”

“Oh yes, I’m constantly surrounded by Americans. That’s all I work with, in fact.”

“Well that’s nice.”

“I hate people who aren’t from America.”

“Well,” she begins, holding a calming hand out, “We can’t–“

“I just PUNCH EM!” I clinch both fists and stare down at the table, my face contorted in a visage of total rage. I think I’m winning her over.

“Can we?” Sarah turns, looking for an assistant, “Is he all right? Does he have somebody here with him?” For fear that Editor will be contacted, I snap out of my patriotism-induced acrimony.

“I’m all right, I’m all right. I just love this country. You know how that goes.”

“Oh you betcha. I sure do.”

“Let me ask you, I’ve seen you on the covers of Newsweek and Alaska Magazine, looking very professional in both. Recently, though, I saw a picture on the internet of you in an American flag bikini.”

“Well, you know how people can be with their computers and editing and things, you just–“

“Do you think I would look good in an American flag bikini?” Sarah Palin begins to blush. I begin to scrawl a small note on my pad that reads “Do u like me? [y] [n],” when Editor comes in. Anything even remotely resembling a boner immediately deflates and reverts into my body.

“We gotta go. Supposedly some of the fans have told event staff about some of the comments you made to some of the people in line. Did you really tell a woman her comments made you want to burn the building down?” I nod my head solemnly. “They also mentioned you stealing a cat calendar?” I clutch my calendar tight to my chest. “Well, they want you out of here–now.”

“Damn it, Editor. Couldn’t you stall them or something?” I ask.

“How would I do that?”

“Ask them to sign something or make them list all the possible reasons why I hate you.” I gather my things and begin to stand. Sarah looks up at me with a wordless longing. She knows she cannot keep me on the bus. It would be a black eye to her entire tour. “Goodbye, sweet dove of the right,” I tell her. “You’ve caused a great conservative movement in my pants area on this day.” Sarah holds out a hand, then pulls back, as if my skin were white hot.

“Goodbye, Iron Kyle,” she says. I turn from her and walk to the front of the bus. Editor is waiting there with a few burly security officers.